


I Know You Rider

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill), traintracks



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Public Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/traintracks/pseuds/traintracks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Touching Albus felt like that moment the wand in your hand responds. The moment before you're healed or cursed, when everything's possible and horrible and perfect.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know You Rider

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sdk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdk/gifts).



> Written for Kinky Kristmas, 2013.
> 
> Title from the Grateful Dead song of the same name.

"Would you like this gift-wrapped?" James asked the woman across the counter from him as he ran her card. Good bag. Expensive pumps. She'd say yes.

"Oh, that would be lovely," she exclaimed. "But aren't you closing now?"

"I think I can manage this for you first, ma'am," James smiled and gave her a wink. He had his wand in the back. He tried not to make a habit of cheating like that, but it _was_ only four minutes to close and his feet hurt like mad.

He handed her the copy of her receipt and took the gold cufflinks she'd just bought to the employees only area.

Al was already there, lounging on the threadbare sofa, one foot swinging back and forth. "Use the green shiny paper," he yawned.

James pulled down the silver instead and set the package to wrapping itself. "What are you doing here? I thought you had drinks with Lily all lined up after you got off," James said, grabbing his time card and running it through the machine on the wall.

Al shrugged. "She's got a date with--"

"Oh, don't tell me. Scorpius Malfoy."

Al stretched and nodded. "Yeah, Dad's gonna shit a Snitch."

James watched his brother come to an even more comfortable slovenliness on the employee lounge sofa and then turned to wand some red ribbon into place. "He might be okay with it."

Al simply snorted and began scratching his stomach where his t-shirt had ridden up.

"You're going to get me fired," James told him.

"Good. Then you can come to work at the Apple store with me and wear Sex Pistols t-shirts, too -- get out of those stuffy suits. Plus, I get free mp3 downloads, you know."

"You get everything free. You steal."

At that, Al sat up. "Oi, just because I'm Slytherin, you accuse me of theft! Bloody Gryffindor jackass plonker," he muttered. But James knew he wasn't really arsed. This was a familiar refrain. It became difficult to buy when all Albus had ever done was stick to James like a particularly virulent bat bogey hex for years. Not that James was complaining. Well, he'd complained plenty when they were kids. Round about when they both got to Hogwarts, though, it started feeling less annoying. It fed his ego that even if he'd gotten a T for his rubbish Herbology work or failed to catch the Snitch or he'd just gotten dumped by someone, he had this one person who unfailingly and unconditionally admired him.

He tied the bow off with a wand flourish. "Want to have a pint with me then?"

"You buying?"

James quirked a smile in his direction and then took the gift and walked out.

*

 

They boarded the Jubilee line in Stratford, and it was so crowded they wound up not only standing but holding onto the same pole. It was sweaty at first touch, and James grimaced in distaste. The train lurched forward, and Al fell against him momentarily.

James elbowed him gently in the side, and Al elbowed back before they settled into the rhythm of the train, jostled by every bump and twist.

"Stop off at The Star then?" Al asked.

"Sounds about right," James answered.

"What?"

James huffed and leaned in, putting his lips near his brother's ear. "I said, yeah."

Al nodded and sighed, "God, I'm so bloody tired."

James was tired, too. It wasn't easy taking all your actions physically, using no magic (well, hardly any) for over eight hours every single day. But it was by choice that James had taken the job at Westfield Shopping Centre at AllSaints in men's apparel. It wasn't wonderful, but he knew if he wanted to be the liaison to Muggle society to the Department of International Magical Cooperation, he'd need a good working knowledge of average Muggle lives and behaviors -- more than he'd gotten in his Muggle Studies classes at Hogwarts at any rate.

Al had no excuse. Al was simply along for the ride. Such that it was. He just thought Muggles were fascinating. He loved their music and their weird technologies, how they prepared foods, and he'd always excelled at Muggle Studies without having to try very hard.

Al was also a Slytherin, and he was up for almost any adventure. Even more so if that included hanging around James, too. But he wouldn't have been able to construct a more ridiculous adventure for himself if he'd tried. Albus was, after all, the most powerful and talented wizard to come out of Hogwarts since... Well, since _then_. Nobody understood why he'd taken to Muggle society for kicks, why he hadn't accepted the multiple job offers from every witch and wizarding institution in the UK, Europe, and beyond and instead had stumbled into working at a Muggle mall and living with his brother in a little flat in Kilburn.

James knew. And maybe that was why Al followed him: because he knew James would always understand. Maybe even when Al didn't.

"Do one of your Wide-Awake Charms on me why don't you?" Al murmured.

"You know that's against the rules. No magic--"

"Outside of the flat, yeah yeah yeah," Al groused. "You wrapped that gift. And my feet hurt."

"Oh, shut it," James said, elbowing his brother again, albeit affectionately.

"Hold me up before I fall over dead," Al breathed dramatically and then leaned back into James' body.

His head came to rest on James' shoulder, his eyes closed. His body was warm, and he smelled just a little like department store cologne. Al's breath bathed James' neck, and he shivered.

He nudged his brother hard. "Come off it, Albus."

"What good are you then?" Al said, righting himself with a put-upon sigh. Their hands touched, and James could feel Al vibrating with the train's motion. "I'm going to close my eyes at least. Wake me when we get there."

The train cranked along, screeching metallic against the rails. Someone coughed. A teen-aged girl with earbuds in bopped her head in time with her music. The lights flickered in the car, an older model, and then suddenly they were enveloped in darkness.

Several passengers gasped, and there were a few murmured 'What the bloody hells.'

To James, it was almost as though the world was no longer there except for Albus' hand. It was a strange comfort, the slightest touch of their fingers. Sometimes the Muggle world felt desperately lonely -- all that empty time traveling from one spot to another, all that time to think about one's life. All that time shared with strangers, looking past one another. So much time spent rushing or purchasing or texting or staring into space, wondering if anyone else felt as alone and helpless.

It made James miss the house he grew up in, the shared meals and plentiful Weasley holidays, the way shoes piled up in the entryway dripping snow, and Kreacher's plum preserves snuck in the middle of the night on his and Al's sticky fingers...

As if Albus heard his stray thoughts, he once again leaned back against James' body, his back to James' chest. His head rested against James' shoulder, and James felt and heard his prolonged yawn.

"Just suffer, you plonker," Al murmured, his lips a mere inch from James' neck. James could feel every word.

He sighed. An old, familiar discomfort settled around him like a smog. Something he'd never been able to exorcise.

He closed his eyes on the swaying darkness and his grip tightened around the pole. Every bump moved Al against him until he could feel his own heart beating against the Al's warm back. James compressed his lips.

Al sighed heavily, and James felt him relax. Al's hair was soft against his chin. The train screamed through the tunnel, and Al shuffled his feet, unbalanced for a moment. James moved his hand so that it covered Al's on the pole.

They were invisible to everyone, including each other.

James opened his eyes again to the flickering dark, ready to step away at the first sign of the end of the tunnel. Until then, he took deep, calculated breaths and told himself that it was all right. It wasn't wrong. It wasn't cocked up that the feel of his brother's body against his own made James ache with a longing so fierce it felt like being homesick -- that it made him hard.

Touching Albus felt like that moment the wand in your hand responds. The moment before you're healed or cursed, when everything's possible and horrible and perfect.

James felt Al's breathing, the movement of the train, the rapid pounding of his own heart, the mortifying sensation of his erection pressed to his brother's hip. Al's hand shifted slightly, and then their fingers, on the now-warm metal, intertwined.

James held his breath and counted the seconds until the light threatened to pierce the darkness once more.

*

"Bloody hell, where are we?" Al asked, stretching.

James grinned down at him. "Do you not remember taking the seat that old git gave up at Green Park?"

"Wull...yeah, but..." He looked around himself, stifling a yawn. "Are we to Saint John's Wood yet then?"

James laughed. "We're almost to Kilburn. I've been standing here watching you sleep for ten minutes. You drooled on yourself, by the way," he added, toeing Al's sneaker with his dress shoe.

"You let us miss the pub?"

James shrugged, holding out a hand and helping his brother to his feet. "You were such an angel," he went on melodramatically, "I just didn't have the heart to wake you."

"Sod off," Al murmured, and then ruined it by yawning again.

They got off at their stop and walked the five blocks home only to find a disgruntled owl waiting behind the front porch glamour when they arrived.

"For you?" James asked, fishing out his wand and dismantling the door wards.

Al's brow furrowed, but the beginnings of a smile lifted at the corner of his lips. "I'll be tossed," he said. He took the note from the owl's foot and began to read.

"What? What is it?" James flubbed the disenchantment charm and cursed in exasperation, flicking his wand once more.

Still frowning at the note, Al drew his wand and tapped it against the doorknob. It clicked open easily, and with a huff, James stamped inside. "Fine. Don't tell me."

"Oh. No, it's just..." Al gestured for the owl to fly inside after them and then shut the door behind himself. He looked up at James. "It's Cynthia Parkinson."

A knot coiled slowly around James' insides. "Oh?" he said, kicking off his shoes and wanding a fire to start in the hearth. "She still in the States training wand-makers or whatever it was?"

"No, actually." Al conjured a quill and began a note back to her without even taking his shoes off first.

"I thought you said your feet hurt."

"Just a sec," Al told him, scribbling furiously.

"Fine," James replied, heading into the kitchen and foregoing a butterbeer for a finger of firewhiskey instead.

"She's back," Al called from the living room, and James spilled liquor onto the counter.

"Fuck," he cursed.

"You all right?" Al called.

"I'm fine. When'd she get back?" _And when's she leaving again?_

"Two nights ago. She wants to get together for dinner."

"Lovely," James murmured. He threw back his whiskey and decided to pour another.

Al walked in, smiling. "You're not still cross with her for--"

"For gate crashing my promotion party and nearly getting me outed by doing magic behind my boss' back? Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Look at you -- you're seething. That was months ago. She did apologize."

"Yeah, like a Slytherin," James muttered, turning his back. She was nasty and she was obnoxious, and James had no idea why Al liked her so bloody much. He suspected that it might be her prowess in bed, even though Al always dodged the topic of sex where Cynthia Parkinson was concerned. James hated her mostly because she'd played Seeker opposite him at Hogwarts, and she was the one person likely to best him in a match. That and she was vile and heinous by nature. And Albus loved her.

Suddenly, his glass of Firewhiskey shattered.

"Fucking shit, Albus!" James turned to his brother whose eyes were hard, his jaw clenched.

"If you're going to insult my friends and _me_ by the way, at least come up with something interesting." Then he blinked and swished his wand again, righting the broken glass and pouring the spilled liquid back inside, and took a deep breath. "Now, where are the owl treats?"

James dropped his gaze, overcome with shame suddenly. He was acting like he was in fifth year all over again. "Middle cupboard. Second shelf," he groused.

"Thank you," Albus replied stiffly. James leaned against the counter and took off his necktie as Al treated the bird and then affixed his new note to its leg. James unbuttoned two buttons on his dress shirt and sipped his drink, his resentment melting away under a bit of a buzz.

Al looked up from the owl, and his gaze dropped from James' eyes to his gaping shirt front for a moment. He blinked, cleared his throat, and swallowed. "It's not like you have to come," Al told him.

The assurance didn't exactly make James feel any better, but he sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm a complete arse."

"Only partial," Al allowed, petting the bird again. James could barely make out his profile now, but Al's shoulders had seemed to soften.

James downed his drink and poured a third and last. "It's late," he announced. "I've got an early shift. I'm just going to go to bed, I think."

Al stroked the owl's head slowly. "Yeah. All right."

"Good night," James told him, taking his drink with him and walking out of the kitchen.

Al stopped him at the door. "Jamie?" he said.

James closed his eyes and sighed. He opened them again and turned. Al looked distraught in that way that meant he feared losing James' affections for something that he'd done.

"What is it?" James asked softly.

Al swallowed. "Just...thanks for letting me sleep," he said.

James gave him a wan smile. He remembered the feel of Al's back leaned against him in the thick dark, his hair that had no business being so soft.

"Good night," he said again and made his way down the hall to his quiet, lonely room.

*

Al and Cynthia had made plans for dinner at Racine the next night. James managed to avoid his brother that morning by rising at an ungodly hour and arriving to work so early the night guard said hello to him on the way out. James sipped his large black coffee, thought about casting a warming spell on it, sighed, and took the escalator (which wasn't yet running) to his level, grateful that at least Albus was off work for the day and James could zone out on his double shift.

He'd made it through the first, had lunch, and was enjoying (though perhaps that was too strong a word) another coffee when Patrice from Footwear peeked her head into the lounge.

"Got a customer," she said.

"Isn't Sean out there?"

"Yeah, but he's ringing someone up and this guy asked specifically for you." She shrugged and left.

James straightened his collar, took a deep breath, and went out into the store with a smile -- which promptly disappeared.

"I had seven minutes left of my lunch, you know," he told Al, who was browsing the suits.

"Sorry," he said. He shot a brilliant smile back at James. "But I need a new suit for tonight."

"Wear your dress robes. Go to Diagon Alley like a normal wizard," James said, unamused.

Al squinted at a lavender dress shirt. "Cynthia thinks Muggle French cuisine is hilarious, though."

"Does she."

"Am I a lavender person? Can I pull this off?"

"Who are you trying to impress?"

Al turned his head then, and his smile faltered. He blinked, and just as soon, his smile returned. "Just thought I'd dress like an adult for once," he said.

James let his eyes travel down Al's body. The Smiths _Louder Than Bombs_ concert t-shirt, black denims, untied boots, because he couldn't be arsed if he couldn't use magic. James couldn't help but smile. "Grey," he said.

"Huh?"

"You should wear the grey."

Al turned to him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." James sighed. "All right, get your arse into the changing room, and I'll pick you out a tie."

Al beamed. "Thanks, Jamie."

But no sooner had he picked out the perfect gunmetal grey tie (with thin lavender stripes) than Al emerged from the dressing room and James regretted helping him all over again.

Because he looked beautiful. The shirt was like milk poured over his chest, the silk draping itself over Al's wiry muscles. The jacket was just almost too snug but not quite, embracing his shoulders and back. But--

"I like the cut of the jacket," Al mused. "But the trousers could use some tailoring, huh?"

James just stared at him, the frustration hardening the set of his mouth.

"You could fit these for me, right?" Al turned this way and that in front of the full-length mirror, observing his own arse packed into the too-long trousers. "Right?"

"Wait here," James breathed and then went to fetch a measuring tape.

When he'd returned with one, Al had stripped off the jacket and was fiddling with his open collar.

James snapped the tape loose. "Back against the wall."

"You're grouchy when you work a double," Al told him, but he pressed back into the wall anyway as James approached.

James looked hard into his brother's dark, glittering eyes. "Back straight," he said. "Quit slouching. You look like a bloody prostitute."

"So maybe I could come out on the plus side tonight?" Al smirked.

"If Cynthia can spare the knuts," James rejoined. "Back flat against the wall," he corrected again, this time shoving Al there and pinning him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey," Al complained. "I do have an arse, you know."

James glared at him, saying nothing. Then he knelt and held the metal tab to Al's hip at his side, stringing the tape down to the floor. He clenched his jaw, practically itching to draw his wand instead. He could have had the whole mess done in thirty seconds flat. For that matter, Albus could have done in ten.

James made note of the measurement in his head. And then he gritted his teeth. "Hold still." He moved to Albus' inseam. James willed his hands not to tremble as he neared Albus' crotch with the end of the tape. James sighed. "Move your junk out of the way."

"Excuse me?" Al asked, peering down at him.

"Back straight. And get your junk out of my way."

James chanced a glance up at Al only to see him lick his lips, his lashes fluttering, as he fairly slammed his head back against the wall. "Someone could come back here," Al complained, and James had to scoff at that. If his brother was anything, modest wasn't it.

"Move it," he said. "Or I will."

James watched Al's chest rise and fall with his breath. The silk of the shirt was thin, and he could see Al's tight nipples through it. He waited.

"Fine," Al breathed. Then he reached into the trousers and pulled his cock and bollocks to the other side of his pants. "Happy?"

"I'm fucking delirious," James muttered under his breath, holding the tab at Albus' groin and pulling the tape taught to the floor.

As soon as he could, James stood again. "Two hours," he said.

"That long?"

James threw the tie at his brother, turned, and stalked away.

*

He'd gone home, eaten some leftovers, and tried to relax with some Muggle television, yet relaxation seemed out of the question.

James missed doing magic whenever he damned well pleased. When he'd begun this venture, he'd felt sure it was necessary and that it would help him grow as a wizard and as a person. Instead, with his dirty dish in front of him on the coffee table and the nightly news on his telly, James felt stunted and bored.

He felt stunted and bored and sexually frustrated.

That last thing wasn't his job's fault. Not in any direct way. He just hadn't had a date in a severely long time, and now Albus was out with--

He just hadn't had a date in a while was all.

James knew the position he wanted at the Ministry was coming open in a month. It wasn't like this was his _life_. He'd move on. He'd do exciting things. He'd meet new witches and wizards, and he'd find someone he fancied and...

And someday he'd come home to news that his brother was engaged to Cynthia Parkinson and was moving out post haste.

James leaned his head back into the sofa cushions and sighed. He'd spent the better part of five years (maybe more if he was brutally honest, and something less than brutal was where he was at at the moment) trying to convince himself that everybody has _those_ thoughts about their brother. Everybody fancies those kinds of hugs with him where you don't angle your pelvis away like you do with all your other relatives. Brothers are different. They must be, he told himself.

Everybody has _those_ dreams.

Everybody wakes up hard from them.

He'd been lying to himself for five years. And lately, it felt like the load of shit it truly was.

Normal people didn't fancy their brothers.

Normal people didn't wonder what it would be like to touch his tight, pale body.

Normal people didn't wank in the shower to the very idea of him, pretending all the while that it could be anyone with dark hair and dark eyes and a serpent tattoo on his shoulder blade.

And James was not a normal person, though he was trying desperately to have a normal life. So normal he'd been trying to become a Muggle.

He stared at the ceiling. It loomed over him, and it seemed like the walls were closing in. He needed to get out of the house. He needed to get away from his own thoughts.

He looked at the clock on the wall. A real Muggle clock and thank Merlin, because he was fairly certain he did not want to know where his brother was or what he was doing with his dick about now.

James launched himself off the couch, grabbed up his jacket, his wallet, and his wand, and headed straight to The Star to get hopelessly hammered.

To forget his hopelessly abnormal heart.

*

James hunkered down at the bar, near the end, and nursed a Guinness. His second. He wasn't getting pissed yet. He was merely gearing up.

So it wasn't that his vision was blurred or his mind was playing tricks on him. Albus really did walk in with Cynthia on his arm around eleven fifteen.

James ducked behind a menu and surreptitiously watched them saunter over to the bar to order drinks and then find a corner booth. Cynthia leaned in to hear something Al said and then threw her head back in a loud cackle, sliding into the booth and removing her shiny shawl with a flourish.

Al scooted in beside her, swiping the hair out of his eyes with a hurried hand. James considered how he might sneak out unnoticed.

But then he had a very Slytherin thought.

James watched Al remove the jacket and fold it on the booth beside him. He loosened and removed the tie James had picked out. James watched his brother unbutton his dress shirt -- two buttons, the sparse black hair on his chest peeking out -- talking and laughing with his girlfriend the while. And even though James' blood sang hot with envy at the way she touched him casually, at how they inclined their heads toward one another, something in his chest bloomed openly at the sight of Albus' smile. It made him feel sick and disgusting and deliriously fucking happy. It made him feel mad.

Something raged in James -- something both dark and bright, something for which he'd likely burn -- and without thinking too much about what he was doing, the rules he would break in that moment, James drew his wand and whispered the spell.

Suddenly, their laughter was right next to him, closer than the next bar stool.

"...strawberry torte! You're the one who's going to pay for that tomorrow," Cynthia jibed.

"Not bloody likely." Al sank into the booth, an arm casually thrown along its back, and they bantered about nothing while the news went on on the telly over James' head.

James sipped his Guinness as the two threw back their tequila shots and grimaced.

"What's this for?" Cynthia asked, holding up her lime wedge.

Al leaned in and said, nearly against her ear, "You suck it." Then he demonstrated.

"You'd know something about that, now wouldn't you?" she replied with a knowing smirk.

James swallowed.

"No more than you," Al ventured, licking juice from his lips.

"But you'd sure bloody like to," Cynthia said.

"Don't start." Al got up and started making his way back over to the bar. James lifted the menu once more, peeking at his brother over it like a pervert or a third year. Al ordered two more shots, but James wasn't thirsty anymore in the least.

"Oh, but your love life is my favorite topic," Cynthia went on when he returned as though there had been no interruption in their conversation. She wore a fake pout and batted her heavily made-up eyes.

James took a long drink of his beer just for something to do, something to ease the anxiety building in his chest.

"I should never have come out with you. Nagging harpy."

"Oh, shut it. You love me. You adore me. And you're going to tell me all about Dream Boy's gorgeous cock, yes? You did say it was gorgeous."

Al shook his head, a finger swiping through the condensation on the tabletop, again and again. "Merlin, you're foul."

She shoved him but remained set on her course. "I believe somewhere between the entree and dessert you mentioned that you can't stop imagining going down on your knees for him, right?"

"I believe I'd been plied with a few glasses of wine by then and cannot be held responsible for the blatant half-truths I might have--"

Cynthia snorted. "The only time I can make you tell me the truth, Albus, is to get you drunk. Come on. It's been weeks since I got to hear about the way you melt when he touches you."

"Cyn."

"The way you can't stop wondering how he would fuck you."

"Cynthia."

"That you dream of giving him the world's best blow job or something like that." She waved her hand and then tossed back the new shot without grimacing this time.

James' stomach clenched, and he pushed the remainder of his own drink away. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. The bartender had changed the station and a football match broadcast live from halfway around the world suddenly erupted in cheering on the telly. Guiltily, James amplified his spell.

"I said nothing about giving the be--- Cynthia Parkinson. I have a mind to hex you silent right here." And James could see that he was blushing hard. He could see the way Al couldn't meet her eyes, and he knew she had hit upon something both true and shameful for his brother.

James felt suddenly quite bad for hearing what he had, not to mention what he might.

His brother fancied a bloke, not Cynthia.

His brother fancied a _bloke_.

Wanted to be on his knees.

Wanted to suck him off.

James swallowed again and dropped his gaze to the bar top. He had to leave. He had to find a way. He should _not_ be hearing this.

But what he heard next affixed him to his stool like nothing else could.

"Oh, Albus," Cynthia cooed. "Why won't you tell me who he is? Why are you so ashamed of it? This tall, beautiful git with the cock of a god, the fittest arse you've ever seen, and...what was it?" Cynthia giggled. "A birthmark on his right thigh?"

James' hand moved to clutch his leg as though he'd been hit there with a curse. He held his breath, his eyes going wide as his head jerked up and he watched for Al's reaction.

Al looked ready to _Reducto_ the table. To run. To cry.

"Oh, sweetheart," Cynthia went on. She touched his arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... I just don't know what's so wrong with it, that's all."

Al managed a sick laugh, still staring at the table. "You have no idea," he said, and the pressure in James' chest burst into invisible flame.

He was no longer holding his breath; he was practically panting, hyperventilating. He blinked at the blurring floor at his feet and then raised his gaze again to watch his brother, to really see him there, looking as sick and distraught as James felt.

"Well, drink up, and I'll tell you about my failed attempts at pulling a decent bloke these past few weeks, yeah? That ought to cheer you right up, my love." She laughed, and Al obediently drank, and James watched them from across the noisy room -- watched Albus duck his head and smile in all the right places. Watched him get sloshed even as James got more and more harshly sober.

He watched his brother over there trying not to want him, as James had done for half his life.

Finally, at one in the morning, Cynthia insisted on paying the tab, kissed Albus on the cheek, and announced that she was going to catch a Knight Bus home.

Al hugged her close, and James nullified his spell. He paid his own tab and then followed Albus out of the pub, keeping a distance but ready to jump in if the idiot fell off a curb or got accosted by muggers or something.

Albus swerved here and there, hands thrust into his trouser pockets, head down. The wind tousled his hair. James followed him into the Tube station, down the green-lit stairs. He followed him onto the Jubilee line for home.

The doors shut behind James, the sound eerily final.

James swallowed against the lump in his throat. He watched his brother take a bench seat near the back of the car, his head resting on the ungiving plastic, his eyes closed.

James thought, for one shining, heroic moment, of taking a seat at the opposite end and simply riding home under a glamour.

He thought of years of silence and holding this secret like a cursed family heirloom.

He thought of never -- not ever again -- touching him, and his heart broke.

As the train pulled away from the station, James moved away from the doors.

He moved toward his brother.

*

Each step felt weighted. Each lurch of the train made James' heart skip a beat. He came to stand right in front of Albus before his brother opened his eyes and looked up at him with a little gasp.

"Jamie," he said. "Where did you come from?"

James blinked down at him -- the fine suit rumpled now, tie balled into a pocket of his jacket. Al's eyes were a bit glazed, his color high. James watched his Adam's Apple bob as he swallowed.

Then James sat down next to him, took a deep breath, and said softly, "You look tired."

Al smiled at him. "And tipsy," he clarified. "What are you doing out?"

Some rhythmic magic pulsed through James' veins. "C'mere," he said.

Al frowned a little in incomprehension.

James took him by the arm and gently tugged him close. Al obeyed, as James now knew he would, and leaned back into James' body with only the slightest hesitation.

"James..." he said again. But he sighed, lay back against James' chest, and closed his eyes. "Are you going to sing me to sleep or something?" Al asked. "We'll miss our stop, you know."

James didn't answer. He wrapped his arms around Albus, a hand coming to rest against his chest, the other his stomach. He pressed his lips into Al's wild hair.

"What are you doing?" Al breathed.

"Shut up, Albus," James told him gently. His fingers slipped into the gap in Al's shirt front.

"James," Al whispered.

"Don't fucking say anything. Do you hear me?" His hand stilled over his brother's rapidly beating heart.

Al nodded quickly. He squeezed his eyes shut. James whispered a privacy charm, though there was no one else in their car, and he started slowly unbuttoning Al's shirt.

One.

Two.

Three buttons undone.

On the fourth, Al's breath hitched, and he bit his lip. James' cock reared up inside his trousers. He was already so hard.

He was doing this.

He slipped his hand inside Al's shirt, over his heaving ribcage, over one of his nipples, his fingers finding it and teasing it. Al dropped his head back and panted. James felt Al's reaction in his cock, deep in his bollocks, and he opened the shirt, revealing Al's chest and stomach. His breathing went fast as he pinched the other nipple, rolling the tiny nub between finger and thumb. Al turned his face into James' neck, and he stifled a groan.

James let his other hand slide down.

Down Al's bare stomach, over the sparse, springy black hair. He loosened Al's belt one-handed, and his brother tensed. James sought the shell of his ear with his lips. He mouthed it, let his tongue peek out and touch it. He bit gently, and he pulled the zip down. Al's body arched hard, his nipple pushing against James' rubbing fingers, his hips canting for a touch on his cock.

"Kilburn Station," the voice called over the speaker, and the train sighed to a stop.

The doors opened. Nobody got on. James didn't rise, and for a moment, the world stood still.

Al whispered into the oppressive quiet, "Please..."

The doors closed again. The train rolled to life. The lights flickered for a moment, and then as the train picked up speed, James dipped his hand into his brother's pants, found his cock, and wrapped his fingers around it.

Al let out a high-pitched sound, something uncontainable, and James began to pump his cock, his own _aching_ for it.

Al grabbed for James' leg and held on as James stroked him. Al's cock was warm, the skin soft, and James found he liked how it felt, moving through his fist. He pressed his palm flat to Al's chest, his other hand speeding up. "Shhh," he cautioned against Al's ear.

The hand on his thigh gripped hard. Al opened his mouth on a silent scream. The lights flickered again, the train moving so fast the cement walls were a blur. The tendons stood out on Al's neck. He gritted out, "Ja-mie," and then he came, pumping his hips and sliding his cock through James' fist, turning his head, burying his face in James' neck, and shivering out little helpless cries against the stubble.

James was making Albus come.

James had stroked his own brother off.

And for the moment, it was too brilliant to be horrible.

James relished how Al came down, whining, his hips slowing, breathing hard, blinking his eyes open, the lashes tickling against James' neck.

James slid the hand on his chest across his body, up into his hair, pressed his lips there again, and held him. The train rocked them both. And then James could already feel the endorphins draining, the disgust rushing back in. James pulled his hand out of Al's trousers awkwardly.

But that was when Al shifted, when his lips found James' jaw for a split second, when he pulled back just enough to make James look at him. Al blinked. His gaze dropped to James' lips, then rose again to meet his eyes. He shook his head briefly _no_ when James' lips parted to speak. Then he slipped down to his knees on the dirty subway car floor, and with one last scared look back up at James, he began to unfasten his trousers.

James frowned down at him. He inhaled to tell him to stop, but Al worked fast, his fingers shaking, and James couldn't stop him. He couldn't make himself. Al's pupils were dilated, and his nimble fingers brushed James' erection through his pants. He nudged James' legs apart more. He looked up at James again, tears spiking his eyelashes together. Then he blinked, pulled James' pants down beneath his bollocks, and he leaned down and took James into his hot mouth before either of them could come to their senses.

James' head fell back against the seat, and he panted hard through his open mouth. Al's mouth moved up and down his prick. Up and down. Getting him wet with his spit and so very hard.

He couldn't help it; James laced his fingers into Al's hair as he worked him. He lifted his head to look down at Al, his distended lips rosy and slick around the head. His tongue coming out over the slit to taste. Going down on James' cock until James felt the barrier of his throat.

And then he slipped in, and James stared down at his brother's shaggy head in his lap, gaping, ignoring his own caveats and cursing, "Albus. Jesus Christ." Then Al was, again, bobbing his head, and James' hand gripped in his hair so tight, and James gave himself over to it, laying his head back, tossing it from side to side.

"Willesden Green," the voice announced.

The train was slowing.

The light was nearing.

James made a sound in his throat. He couldn't stop. He thrust his hips abortively against Al's descending mouth, and he was going to come in there whether or not they were going to get caught, whether or not it was dead wrong, whether or not the world came to an end.

The train stopped, and the doors opened wide, and James' fist in Albus' hair trembled, and Al kept doing it. God, he kept doing it. Fast and sloppy, the sounds sweet and obscene. The doors shut again, and the train squeezed into the next dark tunnel, and James was pulsing his hips up and meeting Al's brilliant mouth, and the little lick under the crown that Al gave him on every pass was exquisite, was Hell, was everything, and he lost control.

"Goddamnit," he groaned as he came and Al sucked and swallowed it and sucked some more, until two tears spilled down James face. Tears he hadn't known were there. Tears that had been waiting for years.

James whined his release into the night rushing by the windows. Al slowed, his eyes closing, changing the fit of his lips around James' cock with a tilt of his head. James' fingers loosened, but before he could tell himself not to, he sifted his fingers through Al's hair, moving it off his face, away from his hollowed cheeks. Al blinked up at him, and, inconceivably, he smiled.

He sucked off James' softening cock and licked his lips. James' hand fell away from his hair, untangling.

"You're ruining your suit," James said stupidly.

Al blushed. "It was for you anyway." He blinked and rose off his knees. James averted his eyes and tucked his prick back into his trousers as Al returned to the seat next to him. After buttoning his shirt, Al said, "We missed our stop."

"Yeah," James answered. He'd come in his little brother's mouth.

The train ran loud, like blood through his ears.

They sat in silence for several moments. They each waited for the other one to break.

Then Al moved his hand so that the outside of his pinkie finger rested against the outside of James' thigh. It was so shy and sweet and hopeful. It was so not Slytherin. It was that secret part of Slytherin they all kept hidden so bloody well.

It was courageous.

James let out all his breath. He dragged Al close, up against his side, sliding down in the seat and tucking Al's head under his chin, his arm wrapped around him.

Maybe they could pretend for a while.

For a few precious days or even months.

Al leaned against him, and it felt like he was trying not to breathe. James' hand shook where it gripped Albus' arm.

The train rolled on. It stopped. It started again. They didn't speak, and they didn't move. They'd just ride.

They'd ride it like Muggles with nowhere to go. They'd ride like lovers with everything to hide.

END


End file.
